


The Lord of War and Thunder

by xbedhead



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Other, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>While rewatching Season 1, I have been inspired to expound upon a few of the anecdotes Raylan tells while breaking down a suspect.  During 1x05 (of which the fic was titled after), he mentions to Stan Perkins how volatile his father was and what kind of a home that created while growing up.  This is what came of that.  Unbeta'd.  Let me know what you think.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Lord of War and Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> While rewatching Season 1, I have been inspired to expound upon a few of the anecdotes Raylan tells while breaking down a suspect. During 1x05 (of which the fic was titled after), he mentions to Stan Perkins how volatile his father was and what kind of a home that created while growing up. This is what came of that. Unbeta'd. Let me know what you think.

~*~

The axe is buried in the center of the old sycamore’s root when he hears his father’s truck pull up the drive. His shoulders sink.

_Damnit._

Another thirty minutes – well…forty-five – and he would’ve had it. He has half a mind to drop his ass on the ledge of the pit and let the man do what he will, but he can’t stand the thought of listening to Arlo yap in his ear about how he can’t handle a few hours of hard work.

A few hours. He’d been at it since before sunrise.

His father climbs out of the cab with a six-pack under his arm, clutching a brown paper bag. He’s favoring his right hand and Raylan can see the knuckles are bloodied and bruised.

He turns and brings the axe down once more, hard. Splintered wood and black earth flies. His back is to his father, but he can feel the man’s eyes on him. He doesn’t move until he hears the screen door slam.

An hour later ( _“Damn handle”_ ), the tree falls with a resounding crash, its fire-blackened limbs cracking like toothpicks under the weight of the heavy trunk. They’ll need a chainsaw to break it down for firewood, so he washes the blade of the axe under the cold stream from the water pump, dries it and places it back into the tool shed.

There are a few smaller roots that can be dug out, so he takes the round point shovel and begins prying the heavy pieces out of the earth. For the stubborn ones he uses a pick until every obtrusive portion is out and stacked neatly against the back of the house. He’s taken the axe out again, so he figures he might as well start in on the smaller limbs of the tree.

Every time the axe hits, it sends a sharp reverberation up through his rib cage and into his jaw, past the bruises that Arlo had given him last night, before he’d doled out this added punishment after spotting the empty Mason jar on the back porch.

It wasn’t that he’d been drinking. It was that he’d snatched it from Arlo’s stash.

The limbs go next to the roots and the tools are washed and put away again. It’s four o’clock and he hasn’t eaten since the piece of toast at five-thirty. And there’s nothing left for him to do but go inside.

The house is quiet when he enters and he lets himself, briefly, hope that Arlo is asleep – or better yet, passed out. He realizes he’s tracking dirt from his tennis shoes and quickly toes them off and pads back to the front door to leave them on the porch.

The house is still silent and he allows himself to breathe.

The fridge is empty except for beer and a jar of mayonnaise, so he opens a can of beans with his Swiss Army knife and walks quietly down the hall.

“Where you goin’?”

He stops mid-step, halfway up the flight of stairs to his room.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and when Arlo opens his mouth to repeat his question – _Arlo hates repeating himself_ – he spits out, “Gonna wash off.”

Arlo squints – that evil squint that Raylan’s feared since he was seven years old and realized his father hated him. “C’mere.”

He sets the can of beans on the step and starts back down, torn between going slow and taking two at a time. He comes to a stop in front of Arlo and, even with his recent growth spurt, he’s still a few inches shorter. Raylan doesn’t suppose it would matter – he can't imagine a day when he stops being afraid of this man.

Arlo doesn’t say anything for a moment and Raylan thinks that this is the worst part, the waiting – he feels the need to say something, but knows it’s pointless. There’s nothing to be said, nothing to justify, to excuse. So he stands there and waits, eyes down, taking in the rusty-stained Brogan's Arlo's yet to take off.

“Do you know how to tell time, boy?”

His head snaps up. It’s a rhetorical question (he’d learned that phrase in school the week prior), but he still answers immediately. “Yes, sir.”

Arlo makes his move, grabs him at the back of his neck and squeezes, _hard_ , guiding him to the front door.

“What’s that clock say?”

“Four fifteen.”

“What time d'I tell you to be finished with that?”

“Noon.”

“ _Noon_ ,” Arlo repeats and the word alone seems sinister.

Arlo shifts his hold and Raylan swears he’s trying to pinch through the muscle at his shoulder. His knees bend and then he’s down, where Arlo wants him.

He’s staring out the front door screen, into the yard at the gaping hole in the earth where the sycamore that had been struck by lightning the week before had stood for the last hundred years. The driveway is empty, save for Arlo’s truck. Aunt Helen’s Fairlane is nowhere to be seen, not today, not for this round.

“I give you one thing,” Arlo snarls into his ear, “one _simple_ chore – and you can’t even do that right. It’s high time you start pulling your fair share around here. I ain’t Helen and I sure as hell ain’t your momma, comin’ along, wipin’ your ass ev’ry other second. _Shit_ , you’re gonna _learn_ ,” he added, punctuating the word with another dig of his thumb.

It hurts, he can’t help it, and he tries to twist away. Arlo uses the momentum and slings him down where Raylan goes skittering across the floorboards. He’s scrambling for purchase when Arlo grabs a hunk of hair at the back of his head and drags him to his feet. He sees his father’s scabbed knuckles coming at his face and the next thing he knows, he’s back on the ground, kicking at the floor, socks slipping as he tries to push himself away.

The coffee table does precious little to separate him from Arlo, but he uses it to haul himself to his feet and staggers back, knocking the end table and sending the lamp crashing to the ground. Arlo kicks over the coffee table and reaches for him again, gets in a few more slaps before Raylan can duck around him.

Arlo’s snatched him by the shirt collar when there’s a knock at the door and Raylan can only pray it’s someone who’ll keep the old man occupied long enough for him to hightail it out the back door. The screen door creaks and he can hear heavy boots _thunk_ across the front hall.

“Mr. Givens?”

It’s Corliss Howard from just up the road a bit.

The man’s hulking build takes up most of the parlor doorframe and from his sweat-soaked shirt and dirty blue jeans, Raylan can tell he’s come straight from the farm. He’s half-inclined to rub at his eyes, to wipe away the tears and do his best to stop sniffling, but he's afraid of moving.

Raylan watches as Corliss absorbs the mess of the living room – coffee table upturned, empty beer cans scattered across the rug and the lamp on its side, bulb shards sprinkled around the shade – and the welt already blossoming around his left eye. At first, Corliss doesn’t say a damn thing. He looks away from him in fact, down at his feet, out the window, at the gaudy snow globe from Pigeon Forge on the mantle – anywhere but his face.

Raylan swallows, praying - _praying_ \- that he’ll…he doesn’t know what. Do anything, say anything, that somebody'll finally –

“Came by to pick up those…” Corliss trails off, sort of flustered-like before regaining his thoughts. “Came t’get the wrench set you said I could borrow. Pick-up’s still givin’ me trouble.”

Arlo’s chest is heaving, but he draws himself up to his full height and grunts, “On the side porch, red toolbox.” He tosses his head toward the back of the house and tugs Raylan a little closer to him but doesn’t loosen the hold on his collar.

Corliss looks like he has something else to say, even takes his dirty baseball cap off and folds it in his hands. Raylan catches just a glimpse of his eyes before they dance over him and to some safe spot, over by the curtains or the radio.

“ _Cor_ liss.”

The way Arlo says it, it sounds like a threat, and Raylan can tell the moment the man’s resolve crumbles.

Corliss tugs his hat back down on his head and pulls a bandana from his back pocket, wipes his sweaty face off with it. “Well, I...I best be goin’, then. Thank ya, Mr. Givens,” he mumbles as he ducks out of the doorway.

Raylan’s still half-hanging from his father’s grip on his shirt but Arlo doesn’t move. They both listen to the sound of Corliss gathering up the toolbox and walking down to his four-wheeler, starting up the engine and tearing off down the driveway.

Arlo releases the hold on his shirt and pushes him forward, nearly headfirst into the mantle. He picks up an unopened beer can and settles down into his recliner, which remained untouched throughout the whole mess of things.

He gestures to the upheaval in the living room with his free hand while taking a slug from his beer with the other. He belches and flips on the radio. “Clean this _shit_ up.”


End file.
